


The Lone and Level Sands Stretch Far Away

by whatfkingbutton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:08:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27023266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatfkingbutton/pseuds/whatfkingbutton
Summary: '“Cap, we got him.”In retrospect, Steve did not remember what he felt when he heard those words, or what his face showed, or whether he outwardly reacted.In fact, he did not remember much about the mission at all. It had started out as a regular scouting-out, regular in the sense that they had combed a lot of old Hydra bases up to that point, hoping to uncover files and data that had been left behind.He did remember Widow’s unreadable face, her eyes searching his own.'
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Kudos: 17





	The Lone and Level Sands Stretch Far Away

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write this fic for at least two years, but I never got around to it (and probably never will). This is just one chapter, but I thought I'd publish it anyway. The title is taken from Ozymandias by P. B. Shelley.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“Cap, we got him.”

In retrospect, Steve did not remember what he felt when he heard those words, or what his face showed, or whether he outwardly reacted.

In fact, he did not remember much about the mission at all. It had started out as a regular scouting-out, regular in the sense that they had combed a lot of old Hydra bases up to that point, hoping to uncover files and data that had been left behind.

He did remember Widow’s unreadable face, her eyes searching his own.

This base they were rooting through that day had borne signs of recent abandonment, and they were all already having a bitter taste on their tongue because an agent had been hurt in a detonation. That damn invisible trigger should have put up their guards much higher already, because Hydra did not care much for the armed protection of their old bases anymore, it had seemed.

The air had felt different, the ghostly light of the old lamps looked different after evacuating the agent.

It was only him and Widow from the Avengers that day, but that was not very unusual because the others had no interest in collecting cobwebbed Hydra files when the real thing was a lot more imminent. They were a stealth team of six (then five) together with the other agents, all of whom Steve knew and trusted from previous missions. They had spent a considerable time together training and scouting out the previous bases.

And so it was no question who “he” was: Steve did not know how SHIELD trained new agents, but the story of the Winter Soldier must have had the status of a legend for those that worked on dismantling Hydra, and especially for those who worked with Captain America. No, Steve and the Widow and everyone on the intercom knew who “he” was.  
The four little words he’d heard left a lot to the imagination. It was silent for a few seconds, maybe also minutes, during which he had just stared at the Widow. Steve’s brain had been wiped clean. His hand had gone up to the plug in his ear. He had asked: “Location?”, turning away from the Widow’s searching look and towards the door they had entered through.

Before he could leave the room after the agent described the way they had taken, the Widow had gotten ahead of him already, speaking into the intercom what communication the protocol warranted. Steve was in no state to do so. The old lamps shone bleakly onto the dark walls and tiles on the floor, dust from God-knew-what erupting into the air when the pair ran through the corridors.

The sounds of his own heart tried to drown out the sound of Steve’s panting, resounding echo bouncing off the cracking plaster, off the cracking insides of his brain. A turn, and another one, and a door, and then suddenly he burst into a room with people in it – his team. The three of them were positioned two towards the room behind them, one towards Steve now.

“Status report?”, the Widow had asked. The agent facing them had lowered the gun so it wouldn’t point at her team members anymore. That was about the last thing Steve remembered of the exchange, because the next moment, his eyes made out a form on the ground. A small gasp left his mouth.

An agent shone a flashlight at the vulgar shape, which created a sharp contrast in the poorly lit room. There was fluid on the floor that reflected the beam, but Steve was only drawn to what could now be identified as a person curled up into themselves, stained trousers and no shirt, and hair that hadn’t seen care for a long time, tangled in crusty knots.  
“Cap, stand back.” The Widow’s voice was cutting through the fog in his brain without effort. One of the agents now left the little formation and approached the figure. Weapon at the ready, he stepped into the man’s periphery and checked the face for a response. Another agent was in touch with backup, but neither the low murmur of a voice nor the flashlight elicited a reaction from the prisoner.

To Steve, the scene felt a bit unreal, even though the sharp lines the light was drawing hurt his eyes and the sickening smell of excrements and dead animals in the room cut into his lungs each time he heaved a breath. Again, he could not tell how much time was passing, and before long (or after?) backup was making itself present on the intercom and in the room and corridors beyond.

His stomach felt the way it does on the worst part of a ride at the fair. He thought: “Maybe he’s dead.” Steve gagged, and the Widow guided him towards a corner next to the door. Her hand smoothing up and down his arm dimly registered with him, then her voice. He didn’t even know he could throw up because of smells anymore. “It’s not the smell. Steve, breathe.” He forced himself to gag again, but nothing came out. Drawing himself up, he tried to shake the faint feeling all over his body and turned to the room again.

He could see heavily armed agents outside the door. The agent who had given the Widow the status report had apparently taken over from him. Steve had never thought that would happen: Captain America losing commando because he felt sick, and his fellow Avenger needing to comfort him. Then again, he had never thought he would find Bucky lying unresponsive in his own feces in a basement somewhere in Eastern Europe.

Two agents were now approaching Bucky with multiple restraining devices in hand. Steve waited for the inevitable explosion, waited for shouts to fill the cell and gunshots to make his ears ring. Everyone had been more or less quiet, almost like they were attending a funeral instead of a capture. And, the agents were advancing – throwing themselves onto the man – wrestling him flat to the ground –.

But it stayed silent in the cell, save for panting breath. The body held shape, yes, the triceps were flexing because the arms were straightened behind his back – but the Winter Soldier wasn’t resisting. The trousers didn’t have any bulges that could have held explosives, and the hands were not clutching at guns. Someone was reporting on the intercom now, a low murmur of voices started, but the shouts did not come.

A few agents carried in a stretcher with yet another set of restraints and placed it on the floor. The Winter Soldier, now in handcuffs and straps, was heaved onto it, turned over, and further locked into place. The flashlight was long not shining onto the man anymore. Steve watched from the door, watched them pick up the stretcher and carry it towards him – towards the door.

The Winter Soldier had his eyes open, blank and unseeing things that were looking towards the ceiling. The contrast of pale blue iris with red bloodshot made bile rise in Steve’s throat again, and then they were out the door. The Widow brushed her hand against his arm ever so lightly, and together they followed the stretcher like it was a coffin. He wasn’t sure if there was much of a difference.

The base had been cleared further by backup while they were dealing with the prisoner, and so no one had to tell Captain America he was abandoning a mission. It would not have made a change anyway; anyone working for SHIELD knew that. There had come a considerable amount of backup that was already leaving again when the little procession came under the open sky again.

The stretcher was loaded into a high-security helicopter (why SHIELD thought to have a vehicle like that Steve did not think to wonder). It was somewhere between dawn and sunrise; how cruel it was of the birds to start singing then, of the sun to start painting the sky in red and pink and orange then. But Steve did not hear or see it, really; blue and red were burned into his retinas, his ears only heard the ever-increasing panting.

Then, when the aircraft took off, he realised it was his own breath. How strange that was. He turned towards the entrance of the base, looking to check if his team had made it all out and was ready to leave. The vault-like door was closing on the cruel lines of cracking plaster behind the fifth agent, and his eyes almost betrayed his brain in only seeing the brown and green twigs and branches casting deep morning shadows over the hidden entrance.

Steve took a breath and his ear canals cracked open, or maybe his synapses untangled to make him hear again. There was a sickly sweet and bitter taste in his mouth, his hands stuck to the insides of his gloves with sweat, his hair suffering the same fate in his helmet. There was a dampness under his mask, and a gust of wind cooling the streaks on his face. His team looked back at him and Steve found the Widow’s eyes.

The agent from before took over then.


End file.
